


Addictive Personality

by Syrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drug Addiction, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3780418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows Templars in the south are fed lyrium to give them their abilities, and to keep them on a short leash.  Addiction to lyrium, and the effects it can have on these Templars, is quite well documented.  What no one is sure of, is whether it's possible to become entirely free of lyrium once addiction has taken hold.</p>
<p>Mages take low doses of lyrium regularly, to restore their magical abilities in battle.  For a mage to become addicted to lyrium is entirely unheard of and assumed impossible.</p>
<p>But, then again, relationships between Templars and mages were also near enough unheard of, until recently...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addictive Personality

The Commander’s decision to come off the lyrium, and his subsequent withdrawal symptoms, were a well-known secret around Skyhold. The mages had known first; they could sense the lyrium within a Templar, in the same way that a Templar could sense the magic of a mage once they had cast, and the dwindling supply in the man’s blood had been a tell-tale sign. Cullen’s men had known soon after; the man’s shorter than normal temper and frequent headaches forcing him to stop part way through training sessions setting tongues wagging, and the audible curiosity inevitably led to one of the mages blurting out the truth.

So, by a month and a half into his decision to wean himself off the drug, near enough everyone within the castle knew where the strange behaviour was originating from, and none thought to question it. The headaches were improving somewhat, and Cullen was starting to feel more like his old self, but the constant cravings were still there and it took all of his willpower not to simply give in.

Dorian hadn’t openly disapproved of Cullen’s decision, but he didn’t exactly support it either. Outwardly, his reasoning would be that the timing was wrong, that they were in the midst of a war against the most powerful enemy any person living or dead could recall, and they needed any advantage they could get. Inwardly, though, he had his own, selfish reasons for wanting the Commander to remain on the lyrium.

What they had together, on the surface, appeared to be a camaraderie, a friendship based on witty tongues, chess and heated debates that went no further than a mild disagreement at times. They were close, anyone with any amount of sense could see that, but a friendship was all that they had. If anyone were to look closer, though, to find the Commander and the mage after-hours when the sun had long since set and the cold of night had overtaken Skyhold, they painted an entirely different picture. Nights of near-silent passion, of bodies entwined together under candlelight, secret kisses and sweat-slicked hands and breathy gasps for more.

Cullen had, somewhat surprisingly, been the one to approach Dorian on the matter. It was a short time after their arrival at Skyhold, with the castle near enough falling down around their ears, the man had enquired as to whether Dorian wished to scratch a particular itch he had been suffering from. He had agreed, of course, wondering if the Commander would go through with the act or if it was a flight of fancy that would disappear come morning. Sure enough, Cullen had appeared at his rooms the following night, had pressed him up against the door and kissed him with such passion and need that Dorian for a moment believed he might well drown in the man. There had been no shy touches, none of the virginal blushing that he had anticipated from the ex-Templar, Cullen knew what he was doing and immediately took control.

It was without a shadow of a doubt the best sex that Dorian had ever experienced. He was left a panting, sobbing mess upon the bedclothes, sparks still firing behind his eyes and singe-marks upon the comforter where his magic had gotten the better of him. The arms that wrapped around him, holding him as he came down from his release, were gentle and surprisingly comforting, the mage slipping off to sleep surprisingly easily. He had awoken the next morning to a still-warm bed, the heady scent that only Cullen seemed to carry, and a simple note upon his pillow inviting him to chess that afternoon.

But then it had happened the next night. And the next. Cullen had eventually confided that he had initially only intended it as a one-time thing, to rid himself of his fixation on Dorian, but that his plan had backfired and now he could not seem to get enough of the mage. Dorian had not mentioned his own thoughts on the matter; how he could not seem to focus when the Commander was present, or how he often considered visiting the man in his office to see if sex over that large desk was entirely out of the question.

It wasn’t until three weeks into their nightly trysts that Dorian realised he truly did have a problem. The Inquisitor had seemingly gotten over his distrust of the mage, and had requested his presence on a trip to the Hinterlands, to which Dorian had happily agreed, believing a break from the monotony of Skyhold would be good for him and keen to show his loyalty to the Inquisition. 

The first night, alone in his tent, Dorian had struggled to fall asleep. His body ached, craving the touch that he had become so very used to, the passion-induced exhaustion that followed and the gentle warmth of the Commander after the act as he drifted off to sleep, safe in those arms. When he did finally sleep, it was fitful and unsatisfying, the slightest noise waking him from slumber, leaving him tired and grumpy the following day.

By the second night, it was clear that not all was well, the mage feeling as though fingernails were scraping at the underside of his skin, head throbbing and an inexplicable need for he knew not what clawing at his insides. He had given up trying to sleep after an hour or so of tossing and turning, donning his robes and stepping out into the cool night air, shivering as a cold blast of wind hit him square in the chest.

“You okay, Sparkler?” Apparently Varric could not sleep either, and was sitting by the fire, tending to the small pile of burning wood.

“Just peachy.” The mage snapped in return, though his foul mood did not stop him from taking a seat beside the dwarf, needing both the heat from the fire and the company, though he would not admit it.

“Yeah, you look it.” Varric murmured in what might have been a tone of amusement, if not for the concerned look he threw Dorian’s way. “Not the camping type?”

“Something like that.” Dorian replied, wrapping his arms around his raised knees and staring into the light of the fire. “It’s clear that all this stomping around in the wilderness is bad for my health.”

“You do look a little peaky, maybe you’ve caught something nasty? You sure you’ll be alright coming with us?” Was that concern he detected in the dwarf’s voice? It must have been, else the hand upon his back was his imagination, and he wasn’t quite that unwell. Not yet, anyway.

“Of course, I’m made from stronger stuff than that.” Dorian had reassured him, though it took a little more work reassuring himself, and again he slept little that night.

The next morning saw more of the same; tramping through trees and thickets, searching for Maker-knows-what, though Dorian’s foul mood was lessened somewhat by his new-found camaraderie with Varric, trading quips with the dwarf and listening to his tales, though the mage found his mind was not as sharp as he would have liked.

They had heard the Templars long before they saw them, noisy beasts that they became once the red lyrium took over, leaving them little more than shambling monsters. Shambling monsters that packed quite a punch, Dorian found, when one very nearly took him out with it’s fist, leaving him sprawling upon his back. He hadn’t been paying attention, too busy readying another shield for Cassandra who had gone charging in ahead, too distracted by the strange pull he could feel attracting him towards the enemy, hadn’t seen the thing approach until it was too late. He was thankful, in part at least, that it had not been one of the less-monstrous Templars; a sword would have likely finished him off. As it was, he simply swore loudly in every language he knew, throwing every damaging spell he knew at the creature, pleased when it crashed to the floor, dead.

Scrambling to his feet, mana supplies dangerously low, Dorian pulled out a lyrium potion and downed it in one. Staggering back under the wave of relief and the sudden, unexpected loss of the headache that had plagued him for the past two days, he must have made some sort of noise of distress because all eyes were immediately upon him, friend and foe. He could see the tentative trust wavering in the Inquisitor’s eyes, and no, he could not allow that to happen. With a noise of irritation and a curl of his lip Dorian threw himself back into the fight with everything he had, utterly decimating the Templar forces with more focus than he had held since they left Skyhold.

“Thought we’d lost you there for a moment.” Varric sidled up to the mage once they were on the move again, seemingly the only one who wished to actively seek out conversation with the man, the Seeker disliking his presence and the Inquisitor still not entirely convinced he had made the right choice in trusting Dorian.

“Yes, well, even the best make mistakes.” Dorian sniffed as way of reply. “Even I am not entirely infallible.”

“What exactly happened back there?” There was that damnable concern again, and if he hadn’t grown so blightedly fond of the wretched dwarf he would have informed him as to where he might shove his pitying glances. As it was, Varric had proved himself to be a staunch ally, not just to the Inquisition but to each of them, in turn, as his friends.

“I’m not entirely certain, to be perfectly honest.” It wasn’t a lie, not really. He was still putting the pieces together in his head, refusing to believe the truth that had presented itself, looking for something, anything, other than the possibility that he might, somehow and in some way, have become dependent upon the lyrium. It made sense; the headaches, being unable to sleep, the constant clawing need for something he could not name - all classic withdrawal symptoms. It explained, too, his inability to concentrate and his shorter than usual temper. What he could not understand was how - he hadn’t left Skyhold since their arrival, hadn’t needed to down the pretty blue potions as often as he might have prior to his joining the Inquisition, or at all in fact.

“As long as you’re alright.” Varric’s low voice cut through his musings, the mage nodding slightly by way of response. “I don’t much like the idea of having to carry you all the way back, you’re much too tall.”

“Agreed, your stature doesn’t exactly lend itself to such a task.” Dorian replied with a small smirk, earning a low chuckle from the dwarf. “I’m sure I’d end up with a concussion, slung over your shoulder like a sack, head dragging on the ground.”

“I’ll have you know I’m fairly tall for a dwarf.” 

“Perhaps, though still-”

“Will you two hush for one moment?” Whatever Dorian had been about to say was cut off, rather abruptly, by Cassandra whipping her head around and snapping at the pair. “Your ceaseless talking will attract every enemy in the area.” She scowled at Dorian, sparing a glare for Varric, before returning her attention to the path ahead just in time to avoid getting hit in the face by a low-set branch.

“Yes, Seeker.” Varric chuckled with a roll of his eyes, sharing a look with Dorian who was laughing silently beside him. Even the Inquisitor could not help his snort of amusement, earning a withering look from the warrior woman and having to spend the rest of the day trying to apologise to her.

“Care for some company?” They had set up camp quite late that evening, atop a hill overlooking more of the same; fields, trees and wandering beasts. A bear had given them some trouble, and from the size and strength of it Dorian had assumed it to be not entirely natural, though he had not voiced his concerns after the beast fell.

“Make yourself comfortable.” As comfortable as possible considering they were perched upon hewn logs, but Dorian sat himself down beside the dwarf nonetheless. “Figured out what happened earlier yet?”

“Perhaps, I have a theory anyway.” Dorian replied, reaching out to allow a small surge of magic to flow from his fingertips and into the fire, making the dwindling flames jump back into life. “I believe it may have been due to my confinement in Skyhold.” He could hear shuffling in the tents behind him, and knew their voices however hushed would likely carry to the inhabitants. At Varric’s curious glance, he continued. “I haven’t been able to use my magic, you see. Not to the same extent that I would normally, and I believe that having to suddenly use it with such a frequency again caused the problems that you witnessed.”

“Not using your magic can do that?” 

“I believe so.” Dorian nodded, staring intently into the fire, not believing his own words. “It isn’t well documented because, well, what mage would go for so long without utilising their gifts?”

“What mage indeed.” He earned a pointed look and a raised eyebrow from the dwarf, the question going unasked.

“I’ve been spending the majority of my time around mage-hating Fereldens and our dear Commander, who despite what he may say carries a deeply ingrained fear of magic within him. It would not have been wise for my to make a show of my natural talents to such an audience.”

“You and Curly do seem to spend a lot of time together.”

“Well he is the only person in that Maker-forsaken castle who knows how to play a good game of chess.”

“I hear the Inquisitor plays as well.”

“Does he now? Well,” Dorian grinned widely at the dwarf, moustache seeming to stretch across his face. This was just the kind of advantage he needed; he had bonded with Cullen over the chessboard, why not try the same tactics with the man in control of the Inquisition? “I shall have to see if he’ll indulge me in a game or two. It would be nice to have another to help alleviate the boredom.”

“If the Seeker will let him.” The dwarf chuckled, looking amused. “He doesn’t exactly get much free time.”

“No, there is that. She seems rather fond of commandeering his time, doesn’t she?” He smirked at the dwarf, who simply chuckled in response and shook his head.

“Trust me, you’re not the only one who’s noticed. Well, it’s past my bedtime, see you in the morning Sparkler.” Varric stood and stretched, throwing an unreadable glance at the mage before retreating to his tent, leaving Dorian staring into the fire, alone.

The next morning brought more of the same, though without the constant cravings and nightmarish headaches Dorian had found that not only had he slept well, he was in much better spirits come breakfast. The itch had started up as he had awoken, but another lyrium potion quickly silenced the nagging at the back of his mind. It proved his initial theory had been correct, and while he wasn’t pleased about the whole thing, he reasoned that there was little he could do about it until their return to Skyhold, and that was still some weeks away. As long as he could keep himself stocked with lyrium potions, he would be fine.


End file.
